Speed (Railers Legacy Book 1), page 1
SPEED
Railers Legacy 1
RJ SCOTT
V.L. LOCEY
Contents
Speed
Speed
1. Noah
2. Brody
3. Brody
4. Noah
5. Brody
6. Noah
7. Brody
8. Noah
9. Brody
10. Noah
11. Brody
12. Noah
13. Brody
14. Noah
15. Brody
16. Noah
17. Brody
18. Noah
19. Brody
Epilogue
What’s next in the Railers Legacy series?
Hockey Series’ from RJ Scott & V.L. Locey
Harrisburg Railers
Owatonna U, College Hockey
Arizona Raptors
Boston Rebels
LA Storm
Railers Legacy
Chesterford Coyotes, Young Adult Romance
Free Reads
Also By RJ Scott
Meet RJ Scott
Also By VL Locey
Meet V.L. Locey
Copyright
Speed (Railers Legacy 1)
Copyright © 2025 RJ Scott, Copyright © 2025 V.L. Locey
Cover design by Meredith Russell, Edited by Sue Laybourn
Published by Love Lane Books Limited
ISBN - 9781785647130
All Rights Reserved
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer-to-peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of Copyright Law.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Speed
Hard ice. Fast cars. Fierce love.
Hockey is as natural as breathing for Noah Gunnarsson. Growing up with two famous hockey stars as his dads, Noah has always aspired to join the Railers to continue the Lyamin-Gunnarsson legacy. With his degree done, it’s time to live that dream; the first step is getting a spot on the team his dads played for. The second step is to pull on that dusky blue-gray sweater and make his fathers proud. His rookie year is bound to be a season of incredible highs and lows, but one of the biggest highlights is meeting Brody Vance at a fundraiser. Brody is the living epitome of a bad boy hiding his pain behind a devil-may-care attitude. As Noah struggles to keep one eye on the puck and not on Brody, it’s only a matter of time before love collides with sport in a chaotic splash of media attention.
Racing driver Brody Vance has spent his life chasing speed and glory and is only points away from his first world championship when a devastating crash ends his season. Determined to make a triumphant comeback, Brody is blindsided by a diagnosis that forces him off the track for good. With his world flipped upside down, and family and fans questioning why he left, Brody hides his pain by pushing the limits and refusing to let anyone see the cracks. But after a chance meeting with a sweet, sexy hockey player turns into an unforgettable one-night stand, fate keeps putting Noah in his path. With his heart on the line and his body racing against time, Brody must decide if he’s willing to risk it all for love—or if he’ll let fear and pride leave him in the dust.
Speed is a steamy M/M romance with a hockey rookie living his family legacy, a bad-boy racing driver with secrets, media attention that would break even the strongest of men, an unforgettable one-night stand, a love that means risking it all, and a hard-won happy ever after.
Dedication
To my family who accepts me and all my foibles and quirks. Even the plastic banana in my holster.
VL Locey
Always for my family.
RJ Scott
ONE
Noah
My phone alarm went off at six a.m. sharp, but I’d been awake for at least an hour before the chiming started. I should’ve cancelled it when I woke up at quarter to five. My nerves had been slowly climbing for the past few weeks when I’d talked to reps from different teams as draft day approached. Now it was here, and after a quick fasting blood sugar test, I grabbed some juice from the fridge, threw open the curtains, and went out onto the balcony to stare spellbound at the Sphere at the Venetian hotel. Las Vegas lay spread out before me, glittering as only Sin City can glitter. Sipping a cold can of tomato juice as the warm desert wind blew over me—I tried to settle my anxiety, but yeah, that wasn’t happening.
Today was the day. I’d been working my ass off for years on the ice to make it to this point. Sometime over the next two days, I’d be drafted by a pro team. I hoped. I wasn’t a super religious person, not as my nana had been before she’d passed. Mama, as Pops had called her, had been super devout, so who knows, maybe all those prayers she had sent skyward as I’d fought tooth and nail through high school to prove a dude with diabetes could make it to the big leagues had paid off.
Whatever the case, I was here, and tonight I’d be seated in the amazing Sphere with my dads as my future was decided. Where would I go? I had three teams I’d like to play for if the hockey gods were being benevolent. I’d be happy to go to Boston or LA. Both the Rebels and Storm were good teams situated in great cities. I planned on spending four years in Bean Town playing for Boston College—Go Eagles!—while getting a theater arts degree. But my number-one choice after college would be the Railers. I mean, that was a no-brainer. My fathers had both played for the Railers, my biological father had been a super solid forward for Harrisburg, and my adoptive pop had been a Hockey Hall of Fame goalie. I’d grown up surrounded by legendary talents such as Tennant Rowe. As a fellow forward, sitting at a picnic table and talking hockey with Ten had been above and beyond. I’d learned so much from all the old guys, and now, after years of hard work, I would hopefully go home and show the GOATs just what I had.
As the sky on the eastern horizon began to pinken just a bit, I looked out over Las Vegas and found one of the songs I’d sung as the lead in Oklahoma in my senior year at school rolling around my head. I started belting out, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!” into a gusty wind pushing my sandy curls into my face as I made a small circle. Not to brag or anything, but I had a pretty good voice. I was no Hugh Jackman, but I had landed several leading roles during my school days. One of my teachers even said she felt I could make a go of it on stage if I applied myself, which was cool. I had a backup plan for when I couldn’t play hockey anymore. Noah Lyamin-Gunnarson, the singing puck-pusher. I could see my name in lights on Broadway.
When I got to the line about cattle being statues, the sliding door to the room next door flew open with a crash. I instantly fell silent, hiding behind my can of tomato juice. An older guy, bald, with a big nose, leaned around the divider to glower at me in the predawn light.
“Is that you singing that stupid-ass song?” he asked, and I nodded. “Well, stop it. What kind of moron sings on a fucking balcony at the crack of fucking dawn? Why aren’t you in a bar somewhere trying to get into some showgirl’s panties?”
“Uhm, because I’m not really into showgirls. I mean, I date girls and guys, but I like the people I date to be—”
“Kid, I don’t give a shit if you date donkeys. Stop fucking singing, or I’ll call the front desk.” With that, he disappeared, slamming the door.
“No one appreciates the arts anymore,” I sighed as I finished the song but at a much lower volume. Chuckling to myself, I watched the sun rise fully. Then, I went inside to shower. I would need to eat soon, and my fathers would be up and ready at eight sharp. Earlier perhaps, as we were in Vegas, the city they’d been married in all those years ago. Plus, and this was huge, Vegas was Elvis central, and my Russian father was the biggest Elvis fan I had ever met. I could already imagine what we’d be doing today as we whiled away the time until the first-round picks were chosen this evening. I guess Elvis-themed hotels and tribute shows would take my mind off the most significant moment of my life so far.
Man, I really was a good fit for a drama major.
But it was kind of true. My hockey life was about to be dictated by a bunch of old men sitting in a hotel room reviewing every player in this year’s draft class.
No pressure at all.
If no one chose me, I could always hit the boards as Kenickie in an off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway run of Grease to put food on the table.
Man, I hoped a good team picked me. I’d look stupid with a DA hairstyle.
“How does one day drag on for so damn long?” I moaned into the mirror in my hotel room as I worked on looping a tie around my neck. My fingers were shaking. Not from anything to do with my diabetes but from straight-out nerves. Although the past twelve hours had been shit in terms of managing my condition. Stress always did this to me. The swings had been manageable for the most part. I’d felt pretty sluggish and muddled before lunch, but after a good meal and some time to chill at the Elvis Diner & Hound Dog Hot Dog Palace, I’d felt better.
Still, I’d better keep a close eye on my numbers. It would suck massively to be called for a round one pick—the odds of that were slim, as I wasn’t a Cole Harrington or anything—to then faceplant as I went up to shake hands and get my sweater. To be honest, I doubted I’d be chosen tonight. Not that I wasn’t good. I was pretty damn good, but I was no generational talent as Tennant Rowe had been, or Cole “Trick” Harrington III was this year. I’d be back tomorrow, Saturday, for rounds two through seven.
My tie was not cooperating, so I tied it into a bow and stalked out of the bathroom to find my jacket. As I passed, someone rapped on the door, so I detoured to check who was there. My siblings had not been able to make it, sadly, as Eva was home with some viral infection that had her spending the past few days puking and pooping. Pops said she’d probably eaten bad moose meat while camping with her fiancée in Ontario. My other sister, Margo, was over in Japan, working her little fingers away on an anime she and her boyfriend were producing for Animax. She and Botan were quite the team. While I wished they could be here, I totally understood why they couldn’t. Sick was sick, and deadlines were deadlines. They’d be watching on TV, they assured me, as did my aunt Galina, who was nursing an impacted wisdom tooth.
What hurt worse was that my mother hadn’t so much as called to wish me well.
Shaking that familiar hurt off, I opened the door to see my two fathers in the hall. Erik, my biological father, was spiffy as all hell in a dark blue suit that made his blue eyes pop. My adoptive pop, Stan, was dressed conservatively in an olive green suit that went well with his gray eyes. This look was subtle considering he’d been in an Elvis jumpsuit all day.
“Why is your tie in bopeep around your neck?” Pops asked, striding in to my room to stand before me. Pops was a big man so I had to tip my head up to stare at him. “Is this new trend for young peoples to make tie like birthday present?”
“Nah, I was just too jittery to get it tied right,” I confessed. Dad inched in, worry on his face. “It’s cool. My numbers are solid. I’m just really feeling all the nerves. What if I don’t get a team I like?”
“You’ll go to a team you love, I’m sure,” Dad said, then nudged Pops and his big fingers aside to undo my tie. “Even if you don’t, lots of players go to teams they don’t think they’ll enjoy, but they then find that the team, city, and fans make things better. Now lift your chin.”
I could do this myself, obviously but there was something comforting about having your daddy fuss over you. And man, could these two fuss. They were both fussers extraordinaire.
“Da, your dad is right. It will all be good as gumdrops,” Pops assured me as he loped to the sliding doors to stare at the Sphere. “Is most amazing thing that big orb. I wish Mama were here to see it. She would like it.”
“Yeah, Grandma would have been super proud,” I said, and Dad gave me a soft nod and smile as he whipped my tie into shape, then patted it. “Mom hasn’t called yet.”
Dad frowned. “She will. You know your mother. She tends to get caught up in herself but, eventually, remembers there are other people to think about.”
“Yeah, I know.” And I did know that. It's funny how, no matter how old you are, a slight from your parents hurts worse than any other kind. “So, hey, this is a happy night. Let’s head over and face my future!”
“That is spunky pep talk! You will make good captain one day, little rabbit.” Pops draped a thick arm over my shoulder, tugged on the lapel of my navy suit, and pecked my head.
Captain talk was a giant leap. Right now, I’d be happy to be chosen at all.
It was a short distance to the venue, so we walked, the desert air making me sweat. Pops and Dad chattered the whole while. I was usually talkative, but this was too big of a moment, and my nerves were shot.
The coolness of the air-conditioned interior made me feel less twitchy. The armpits of my shirt were already damp, as was my collar. I should’ve cut my hair, but I liked it on the long side. My curls, courtesy of Dad, would look pretty epic hanging out of the ballcap the Railers GM would put on my head. If all went as I hoped. Let’s face it, flow was important.
The room where the draft was held was massive, with chairs on higher risers for the players and their families. On the floor, hundreds of NHL reps milled about tables set beneath a giant domed ceiling with the logos of each pro team.
I felt my guts tighten as our faces replaced the logos—hundreds of hopefuls on that massive screen. I found mine. I looked as goofy as I felt.
“This is big day,” Pops said by my ear. I nodded dully. I was caught between being excited and terrified. “If you need sugar snack, just shout. We both have pockets filled.”
“Thanks, Pops,” I whispered. Someone called my name. I found a familiar face, then another, and then another. “I see a few friends,” I told my fathers as we made our way to our seats.
“Go and talk to them. We’ll save your seat,” Dad said with a smile.
Lots of bro hugs. A small group of us from eastern division teams were shooting the shit, talking about where we hoped to play, girls, guys, and parents, when the prime cut of this year’s draft sauntered up. Cole Harrington III—Trick, to the rest of us mere mortals—strolled in with a woman on his arm who shut the whole room up. Dyna Bubble Mint. Yeah, that Dyna—the rapper whose debut track went gold two months ago. Apparently, first-round hopefuls get first pick of the rising stars, too. Still, I’m shocked she’s on Trick’s arm. Considering Trick’s dad was a fire-and-brimstone TV evangelist with a holy crusade against anything queer or trans, it’s honestly wild that Trick’s even allowed within ten feet of Dyna.
“Hey, Trick,” I said as he neared.
With Dyna on his arm, he strutted right past, as if he didn’t know me or the other guys. We all watched them stroll on by.
“Okay, dude, that was rude,” I grumbled at Trick’s back.
He surely heard me but continued to his seat, an entourage following in his wake—not one of them looking like they were his parents. I shot the rest of the guys in my little chat circle a glance. They all shrugged. We all knew Trick was an asshole at times, probably inherited from his dad, and we’d all heard his homophobic shit—again, probably genetic. Sure, he had stupid skills. But no matter how good he was—and the shithead was good—he would be going to the worst team in the league. So sure, be smug, but not that smug. Most hockey players were humble to the nth—it was drummed into us from peewee up. Even great talents like Crosby, McDavid, and Madsen-Rowe were always respectful. They didn’t walk around with their noses in the air. They were salt of the earth, as the play-by-play guys liked to say.
“Hope he has fun playing to the fifteen Atlanta Phantoms fans who are showing up to watch them lose,” Craig Smythe, a hella nice guy and winger from Harvard, sneered. Being little brats, we all nodded. If anyone could use a good comeuppance, it was Trick.
“Truth,” I added.
“You think he knows that Dyna is…” Craig waved at his crotch and then blushed when I raised an eyebrow. He knew Margo, my sister, had transitioned. “I don’t mean… I just meant… fuck… his homophobic ass is going to be shocked when he finds a…” again with the crotch waving. I stared at him, humored him, and he slunk in his seat. “Fuck, I didn’t mean that, I meant… Jesus… I’m shutting up now.”
“Probably for the best,” I deadpanned, and then shoved Craig. Hard. He ducked his head, still bright red, and muttered another sorry. He was a nice guy—more than that, really—and I knew he didn’t mean any harm, but he needed to understand that it wasn’t okay to reduce people to parts or labels like that.
